


Lights Out

by Carloswilliamcarlos



Category: Marriage Story (2019)
Genre: Affairs, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carloswilliamcarlos/pseuds/Carloswilliamcarlos
Summary: Feelings are revealed between you and Charlie when the power goes out in the theater.
Relationships: Charlie Barber/Reader, Charlie Barber/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	Lights Out

It’s wrong, the way you and Charlie look at each other. Or at least, it’s wrong the way you hope he’s looking at you. It’s just a glance, across the stage, at rehearsal. He stands, one hand pressed to his lips, thinking through a stage direction. He looks in your eyes, down along your body and back up again, eyes lingering just a second too long as he moves on to another note. 

It’s wrong the way his hand drags over yours when he helps you find the right page in your script. Wrong how generous he is with praise. Wrong how quickly he leaves when you find each other alone in a backstage hallway, like he knows he shouldn’t be there. 

It’s wrong the way he never laughs with you, it’s never casual. You two never don’t notice when the other is in the room. Every nerve in your body stands at attention, eyes pretending not to follow him, ears pretending not to pick up on the low, sultry notes in his voice when he chats with the crew members. 

It’s wrong how little you notice the cute lighting designer who’s so clearly trying to woo you. He’s boyish, friendly, boring, so young, so flavorless next to Charlie. Charlie, whose eyes bore into you hotter than the stage lights, whose body you track more closely than a follow spot, whose dominant presence makes you feel more bare, more exposed than a hundred floodlights. 

It’s wrong you feel this way about him when he’s still married. It’s wrong you touch yourself at night and think of his lips. It’s wrong you’re sure he can read every thought you have about him like it’s typed up on a page. It’s wrong you hope he can.

It’s wrong how fast your heart races when you pass him alone in the stairwell, wrong how sweaty your palms get when he asks you a simple question.

“Hey, can I get your opinion on a line?”

You’re heading up, he’s heading down, but he’s already past you. He stands two steps below you, hand on the railing, looking up at you with tentative eyes that hide something behind them. You try to lean casually against the opposite wall, looking down at him with innocent eyes that surely betray your filthy thoughts. 

“I thought, you know your character better than I do, so I’d ask you. I’m not sure she’d say it exactly the way it’s written,” he says, too fast. He’s justifying why he’s stopping you in the stairwell alone… you hope.

“Sure, which line is it?” you ask, all too conscious of the way you cross your ankles, angle your body to look most enticing. 

He’s staring at your lips. 

“Um…” he stalls. You wonder if he has a line in mind at all. He seems hypnotized by your lips. So you bite them, and his gaze flicks up to your eyes. He starts to take a step closer. “It’s-”

With a flicker and a dying mechanical whirr, the lights are out. 

It’s pitch black, silent, the summer heat instantly taking over in the absence of AC. 

Sight removed, your other senses devour the next few moments in slow motion. 

You hear him take a step closer, the small tap of his leather shoe lifting him nearer to your body. You feel his enormous hand brush your hip, taking hold, thumb swiping over the fabric of your dress. You smell his cologne, like fresh laundry and spearmint, winding through your brain. You taste his breath like honey ghosting your lips as he whispers your name. 

It’s wrong that he’s kissing you, wrong how much you love it. Wrong how you wind your arms around his strong shoulders and scrape your nails down the back of his neck. Wrong how hard you’re breathing, how effortlessly your tongues glide against each other, how wet your panties get when he pushes you against the wall. 

His hand squeezes your breast, trails down your front, and dips under your dress. It glides up your thigh, leaving goosebumps in its path, and rubs back and forth along your clothed slit, firm enough to make you squirm deliciously. 

A small moan escapes your mouth and his other hand wraps around your face, muffling your whimpers. 

His fingers are rubbing circles around your clit through your panties now and you’re melting, sweat dripping down your neck from the pleasure and the stifling heat. He brings his lips to your ear.

“I need to be inside you so fucking bad,” he breathes, hips already rutting toward you. 

You lift one leg around to hook around his hip. Under the hand still wrapped across your mouth, he feels you nod. He lets up just enough so you can whimper, “please.”

He fumbles his belt and zipper open impossibly fast. He grabs your right hand, brings it down slowly, wraps your fingers around his cock so you can feel what you can’t see. He strokes your hand up and down twice, slowly, firmly, only stopping when you whisper, “fuck me.”

In one swift motion he tugs your panties to the side and plunges into you. The stretch is immense. You feel complete. You feel so right, and it’s so wrong. 

He’s fucking into you, fast, right away. Your back pushes into the wall over and over as he plunges in, one hand grasping your hip and the other on the wall next to your head, caging you in. He kisses you again to stifle the moans escaping you both. He’s so big, his cock filling your pussy to its limit and his body surrounding you from every angle. 

It’s hard, it’s fast, it’s breathless. It’s impossible to know how soon the lights will come back on and this illusion of permission, this temporary moment beyond reality will vanish. 

You drop your hand to your clit, rubbing slick, frantic, delicious circles. 

“Charlie,” you breathe into his mouth. He only grunts back, meeting you with deeper, faster, more powerful thrusts. You’re cumming, stars exploding behind your eyes, breaths rushed and shallow and laced with high-pitched vocalizations that send Charlie’s soul to space. 

“Where… where do you want,” he stutters. 

“In my mouth,” you pant into his ear. “Cum in my mouth, Charlie.”

He pulls out and pushes you to your knees, one hand pinning your head against the wall. You open your mouth wide, waiting, ready, hungry. 

You hear the slick sounds of his hand stroking over his cock rapidly, rhythmically, his breath coming through his gritted teeth. Suddenly he stalls, cursing, and a jet of hot cum falls across your eager tongue and chin. You swallow, eyes closed, smiling with satisfaction. You hear jangles as he tucks himself away, zips up, buckles his belt. 

Just as you’re swiping a finger up through the liquid on your chin, the lights click back on, the air conditioner humming to life. 

You catch each other’s eyes immediately. Charlie’s leaning against the railing opposite you, hands on his hips, still panting, running a hand through his sweaty hair. 

You look right at him as you suck your finger into your mouth, swallowing down every last drop of his spend. 

“I think that’s exactly how she’d say that line,” you say with a smirk, standing and straightening your dress. 

Charlie freezes, then huffs out a big breath and nods, looking away. 

“Yeah, I…” he swallows. “I think you’re right.”

It’s wrong that you don’t look at each other as you ascend the stairs to the theater. Wrong that he holds the door open for you so formally. Wrong that you head in opposite directions immediately. Wrong that when someone jokes about how sweaty he is, he comments on the AC breaking without missing a beat. 

It’s wrong that the lighting guy asks you to coffee before you leave and it’s wrong that you say yes. It’s wrong that when you touch yourself in bed that night, you think only of Charlie’s delicious load hitting your tongue. And the cold press of his wedding band against your lips.


End file.
